Chapter 3

The elevator had been broken for three months, so we climbed the five flights of stairs.

He walked into my apartment, or more accurately, the place I slept.

From the cheap appliances in the kitchen to the canvases stacked by the bedroom door, to the obviously second-hand sofa.

His eyes scanned every inch of the cramped space.

I almost felt apologetic for bringing the great Don Falcone to such a shabby place.

"Not as bad as I imagined. At least it's clean."

"I'm surprised you're not on the streets."

With one hand in his pocket, he ran his other along the wall. "I thought I'd find you begging on some street corner."

I took off my coat. "Disappointed?"

"A little." He turned to face me. "You've managed to hold on to one last shred of dignity. I don't like that."

I endured his insults and walked silently toward the bedroom.

From the bottom drawer of my nightstand, I took out a rusty safe deposit box key and a handwritten letter of authorization on Ricci family letterhead.

"I don't have much to give you, but there's something in here."

I placed the key and the letter in front of him.

"It's the last of my family's 'clean' assets, along with some old secrets about the Torrino family's money laundering routes."

"It should help you with the enemies still circling you."

He didn't even glance at them, his expression growing dangerous.

"You think I give a damn about this garbage?"

He lunged at me, grabbing my shoulders and slamming me against the wall.

"Do you really think I need to rely on the scraps of the Ricci family to secure my position now?"

His breath, smelling of whiskey and mint, hit my face.

"What do you take me for? Am I still that same street thug you could buy off for a few thousand in protection money?"

His grip was painful. I tried to push him away, but my arms were already growing weak.

Damn this disease.

"Massimo, that's not what I meant…"

"I'm not trying to buy you," I managed to say. "I just want to offer something of equal value."

"Value?" He let out a cold, chilling laugh.

"The only value you have now is letting me watch you die with my own two eyes."

I gave up trying to explain.

It was pointless. He would never believe me, not a woman who had abandoned him.

"Then let me go," I whispered. "I'm sick. I need to rest."

He released his grip but didn't step back.

"I'm not leaving." He sank onto the sofa as if he owned the place. "I need to make sure you don't run off in the middle of the night."

"Don't worry," I said with a bitter smile. "I can barely climb the stairs. Where would I run to?"

"Even better." He leaned back against the sofa. "Since you love playing this little death game so much, I'll play along."

"But if you're not dead when the time comes, Chiara, you know the consequences."

I smiled too.

Yes, he had power, money, and men.

But I had an ally too. I had Death on my side.

He wanted to go against me? This was one fight he was guaranteed to lose.

When I woke up, Massimo was still sitting on that worn-out sofa.

He hadn't slept, just sat there, staring at me.

"You sat here all night?" I struggled to push myself up from the bed.

"I told you, I'm making sure you don't run." He stood up.

"I have some things to take care of now. You stay put. Don't try any funny business."

It was almost laughable. What could a dying woman do?

The plan had been simple. Massimo would show up to collect my body after I died.

We had agreed to contact each other every three days to confirm I was still breathing.

If I didn't contact him for more than three days, the game was over.

He already had the key to my apartment and would have to come deal with the aftermath.

Even with the autumn chill, the apartment was stuffy. A body wouldn't last long in here.

But he was at my door again the very next day.

"Get dressed. You're coming with me."

"Where are we going?"

"To see your new home."

His expression was cryptic. "Saying I'd sink you in the river... I spoke in anger. I've changed my mind."

"Since you're in such a hurry to see your father, I'll grant your wish."

I knew him too well. He was convinced I was acting, that my claims of dying were a play for sympathy, an attempt to reawaken his pity.

So he was finding new ways to torment me, waiting for me to break and beg.

I had no intention of giving him that satisfaction.